


A little space to breathe

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Gen, Tirion Politics, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:39:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Eärwen & Finarfin, Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A little space to breathe

Eärwen came up behind the chair where her husband had sat down a moment before with an exhausted sigh. “Was it that dreadful today?”

Arafinwë huffed. “Well I wouldn’t quite say _dreadful_ …”

“….”

“….Alright, yes, it was a nightmare from the blackest depths of the Void!” said Arafinwë, throwing his hands in the air and leaning back in the soft armchair. He had thrown off his heavy formal robe, and his hair looked distinctly limp in the thick summer heat. 

Eärwen came to sit down beside him, squeezing into the armchair’s cushions along with him and putting an arm around his shoulders, letting him hold her even as she laughed a little. “Oh dear. Was Fëanáro so insufferable?”

Arafinwë smiled slightly. “You’ll never hear me say so…”

“Ah, so he was. Was it the pronunciation thing? He can get so tiresome over that. Or is he still in a flap because of the guilds again?”

“Yes and yes. But mostly the latter, this time. Just because Fëanáro is the great, exalted craftsman, he thinks himself entitled to have all of the artisan class on his side. It was bad enough when the carpenters came out in support of Ñolvo…”

“It gives me satisfaction that that was partially your doing” smirked Eärwen.

“Well, it was as much yours as mine” said Arafinwë, kissing her forehead as she leaned forward into his arms. “What with their ties to Alqualondë. But that was only the start of it. You should have seen the temper he was in when the laceworkers issued their statement.”

Eärwen smiled, wryly. “It’s his own oar he’s hit himself with. He was the one who convinced your father to draft the statute that allowed the guilds to hold as much power as they do, remember?”

“Yes, though I was Findaráto’s age at the time. But even seeing Fëanáro squirm is starting to lose its appeal for me; that’s more Lalwende’s territory, I’m afraid.”

“Poor dear, that does sound serious.” She laid a hand on his face, turning it so that he met her eyes. “So what’s troubling you, hmm?”

He gave her a long look. Then he sighed. “I… my father’s court, the petty disputes and the not-so-petty ones, the lords and ladies jostling for favour… even this damned heat… it all drains me. I don’t think I’m made for this, Eärwen.”

She smiled sadly. “No one is, I think.”

“Ñolofinwë is.”

“Well, it’s good that he’s before you in your father’s line, then.”

“Hmm” Arafinwë raised his hand to his head, slipping off his circlet and drawing his fingers through his hair thoughtfully. “But Ñolofinwë - and Father - they still need me. I can’t just leave them.”

“No” said Eärwen, sighing and taking his hands in hers. “No you can’t. But I know what you _can_ do.”

“…What?”

“Say to the Void with it all! Temporarily, at least. Let’s go to Alqualondë, for a few weeks…”

“Eärwen, I can’t…”

“We can stay in the palace, or the villa on the cliffs if you want to be even further away. It’s Mother’s pet project, she’d love for someone to use it! Ingoldo can play in the sand, he’ll love it…”

“….I would love it too, but…”

“But nothing. It would only be for a few weeks, and it’s summer, and you haven’t taken a holiday since… well I don’t even remember the last time.”

“When we took Findaráto to present him to your father’s court, after he was born.”

“Exactly. And even that was a state visit.”

“….”

“Come on, Arafinwë. Ñolvo won’t mind, he understands you better than anyone. He’s probably seen you looking so drear and gloomy, and I know he always wants the best for his little brother.”

“Dear and gloomy?” Arafinwë frowned. “…Really? You think so?”

“Quite terribly.”

Arafinwë sighed. “Alright. We’ll see what Findaráto says about it.” He looked doubtful for a moment. “Should we gather some schoolwork from his tutors, or…”

“Arafinwë!”

“Alright, alright! I’m just concerned about our son’s education.”

“Findaráto’s already reading books that children twice his age scratch their heads over, sings as fairly as though it’s the Music of the Ainur come again, has an extensive collection of pressed botanical samples all labelled with his own meticulous notes, and Mistress Telwendë says that he must have been winning people’s hearts and minds from the day he was born from how he is progressing in his rhetoric lessons. Though he checks her own factual knowledge a little too much for her liking I fear. As of when I last saw him, he was out of the balcony making watercolours of birds so lifelike you’d think them real. I think it’s safe to say our son’s education is unlikely to suffer. Now, if I write to my father, will you make whatever speech to Ñolofinwë you find necessary? Not that he will mind in the slightest, I am quite certain.”

Arafinwë smiled at that. “Alright” he said, getting up and stretching his arms. “Alright. To the Void with court politics then! At least for a little while.”


End file.
